The Fable of Oxman
by Thefallenheart
Summary: My interpretation on the adventures of Chicken Chaser.


Oxman sat down on the bench with a resounding creak and groan of tortured wood and a light shuffling sound of students trying to regain their balance on the other end of the bench. It was not long before a plate of food was forthcoming. Oxman had graduated the Heroes Guild almost two days ago. Technically he should not have been able to get a meal there, as his student membership expired at that time. However, and it was a big however, he only ate one meal a day and no one was anxious to find out what would happen if he was denied this meal. Angering a seven-foot tall slab of solid muscle and sinew was not something the guild was willing to experiment with.

He picked up the knife and fork, which looked almost comically small in his hand like a bunch of pink bananas, but no one would dare laugh.

It took almost an hour for him to finish his pie and peas, despite the fact that the plate looked like it could have fit into his mouth whole. During the course of the meal his brow was knotted in concentration. No one was sure if this was acutely evidence of problem solving or just the taxation on his brain for something as complex as chewing.

The Guild Graduate left the table and walked heavily over to the door, over the bridge and into the kitchen.

The cook was sitting by the heating stove to keep warm on this frosty night. With surprising silence for something his size he crossed the floor to cook who was just beginning to nod off.

'Thank you.' Rumbled Oxman. If a mountain could speak it would have spoken thusly. The sound gave the impression that the words were very, _very_ heavy and coming from a long, _long_ way away.

The fact that the cook was now asleep and could not hear him was irrelevant. His mother had raised him to be polite and courteous and good mannered. And he had a routine that he had observed ever since Maze had brought him from the ruins of Oakvale as a soot covered, blood speckled child.

After he gave his thanks for his meal he wandered towards where his bed now was. Since his graduation his bed had been given to a new neophyte. Oxman made his way into the forest surrounding the Guild.

The camp, if such it could be called, was not a homely affair. The most anyone could say about it was that it was functional. There was a mat. There was a blanket. There was a backpack containing any amount of ointments, antidotes, antiseptics, bandages and a selection of very sharp curved needles and a large spool of very fine thread.

Oxman removed his shirt to reveal a torso that would have put gods to shame and contained enough muscle to outfit a heard of oxen, which was one of the reasons for his name. The skin had now accumulated a number of deep slashes and a several puncture marks from his encounter with the Wasp Queen and her swarm at the Picnic Site. The more experienced of the guild members would have laughed at his utter lack of ability to aim with his longbow and his complete deficiency of any magical aptitude. Even Brier Rose, who he had always considered a friend, had suggested that the cleaning of the kitchens was a job better suited to his abilities. He had been halfway across the lawn before he considered that she might have been joking.

Oxman hoped that she was joking. It hurt him when she called him names in a way the venom of wasps never could.

In the end he had been forced to kill the foul creatures in direct combat. For the smaller members of the swarm this was easy enough, one slap from the kantana he had won and they were all half-wasps. The Queen had been harder by an order of magnitude. For one she had barbs and a stinger and great big mandibles. The mandibles alone had cost him a sizeable chunk of flesh from the top of his shoulder before he had managed to slay the creature.

Carefully and with a level of dexterity unexpected from hand that looked like a bag of pink walnuts he uncorked a bottle of clear liquid. There was what looked very much like a heat haze over the open bottle. A clean and dried rag was extracted from the bottom of the rag and a liberal amount of the liquid was poured onto the rag. The smell hid his sinuses like an iron topped battering ram. With the minimum amount of fuss and no outward expression of pain Oxman began to slosh generous amounts of neat iodine onto his wounds to prevent infection.

A new dawn broke. And it did indeed break; the spears of light smashing through the ranks of night as the sun crested the eastern horizon and poured over the mountains that bared that side of the world in an unstoppable golden tide.

The splendour of this view was utterly lost on Oxman as he was washing bandages for tomorrow in the local stream. After the worst of the blood had been swilled out he walked back to his little camp and placed them in a bowl of disinfectant to dry.

Then he went back to the stream to wash. As he washed his face with the crystal clear water he became aware of a friction on his lower jaw, quite besides the livid red line that started just bellow his eye and ended at the chin. As he did not have a mirror in which to see his reflection he resigned himself to eventually having a golden beard.

The Guild was just beginning its morning rituals by the time he arrived. The guards were just shouting the children awake and soon would begin the morning lap of the grounds. Oxman recalled with longing for those times such a short time ago that now seemed another lifetime.

But those things are children things, he told himself, now I am a Hero and a Hero does _real_ quests.

And with that thought he ambled into the Map Room. When he was small Oxman had spent hours and hours just looking at that map. It was full of far off places with strange sounding names; Witchwood, Westcliff, Snowspire, Samakand. All places he could go and see one day, always one day but never today. On some of the places were little markers with cards attached. Oxman picked one of them up and read it, with his finger following the words and his lips moving.

'Ah, Oxman. I would like a word with you if you please.' It was Guildmaster Weaver. 'It would appear that Maze is looking for you, he tried to get you the other day before you set off for the picnic site but he must have missed you. He told me to tell you he will be waiting for you in the tavern in Bowerstone.

'Thank you Guildmaster, I will go there very soon.' With that the Guildmaster left the map room in the direction of the guild grounds, no doubt to offer encouraging advice to the new aspirants in training.

'Off to Orchard Farm? Always knew that was your true calling, Farmboy?' came a familiar voice behind him. He turned around to see Whisper. She had the dark skin of the people of far away Samakand and a trace of it in her accent. He had always considered her a friend, despite her joy of insulting him on the odd occasion.

He held up the Quest Card by way of explanation.

'Is that so?' she said looking at the card. 'I hear Lady Grey has placed an opposite Quest with us. Maybe I will give that one a try.'

It was a few minuets later that Oxman had settled into the distance-eating lope that he used for getting from one place to another. It was a pace he had adopted not long after arriving at the Guild. Every other morning there was a race around the Guilds extensive grounds and at first Oxman had tried to sprint the race and usually collapsed about halfway round from exhaustion. However the pace he had found he could keep up indefinitely and usually overtook everyone as they began to tire.

Not long after he was at the southern gates of Bowerstone having his weapons confiscated by a guard who knew full well that weapons or no there was a near unlimited amount of damage Oxman could cause should he have a mind to.

The tavern was not hard to find, being just up the muddy main street facing the gates. The owner of the pub had put benches out so that his customers could enjoy the warm weather. Sure enough there was Maze sitting on one of the benches finishing off his pint.

'The mighty hero returns. Word of what you did at the Picnic Area is spreading. A good job, boy, just don't let it go to your head' said maze getting to his feet. 'I remember the night I first brought you to the Guild, those were grim times. but still, look at how well you turned out.' Maze took a few steps towards Oxman and lowered his voice so that none of the other patrons of the tavern could overhear them 'I have found a possible lead on your sister, it's not much' he added quickly as he saw the hope blossom in Oxmans eyes. 'Its just a rumour that I am looking into.' The sun became obscured by a passing cloud and the brilliance of that morning was diminished for a moment to an instant of gloom. 'Be wary, boy. There are dark forces awakening in the world. Things that would put that overgrown insect of yours to shame.' The sun came out from behind the cloud and Oxman could almost convince himself that he had imagined the sudden plummet in temperature, as an unnatural chill seemed to have emanated from the very air.

Just as he was turning to go Maze turned back to look at Oxman. 'You might want to try buying some new gear whilst you are here. Something that is a little less basic.' And with that he rounded the corner and was gone.

As it was Oxman did not have enough for anything from the blacksmith's workshop. His pitiful finances looked like he might be able to get a decent meal and possibly half a pint if he was lucky.

He was on his way to the farm and just passing through the forest past look out point after dealing with a slight problem there. A very annoying child, who reminded him of the village bully he had grown up with in Oakvale, was harassing an unfortunate looking man despite the objections to this. The man had asked Oxman for help.

The problem had been sorted out quite easily by picking the obnoxious child up gently by the throat and hooking the back of his collar onto a sturdy branch some eight feet of the ground. The problem was solved and caused much amusement for spectators.

The woods were becoming home to shady characters again. After the Oakvale Massacre, as it was known now, the Guild had been petitioned by the few survivors, and the Bowerstone Chamber of Commerce, to do something about the rampant bandit problem. It had been just over ten years ago and now people were already forgetting the guild scouring the forests for bandits to kill.

Oxman had been aware that there was someone watching him for sometime. He had expected them to be hostile. Usually they would offer the traditional "Your Money Or Your Life" question as most people, when confronted by half a dozen heavily armed sociopaths, would drop the money and run. This resulted in the minimum of fuss for everyone. It was quite a shock, therefore, when a crossbow bolt smacked into his left thigh with a sound from a butchers slab.

His arm moved so fast it was almost invisible; there was a sound like a startled partridge and a cut off scream as the sword flew from his hand and buried its self deeply into his assailant's chest. Suddenly they seemed to appear from behind every tree.

Each of them was walking through the morning mist with blade in hand. He could see at least six of them in front of him and by the sound of footfalls there were at least another four trying to sneak up behind him. Oxman had an uncomplicated mind, the other reason he was called Oxman, and had been rightly feared throughout his sparing matches at the Guild because of the simple truism he lived by at a time like this 'When in doubt, charge.' And this was exactly what he did. The head bandit swung his sword in an over arm swing that should have had the blade buried in is cranium. But with truly alarming swiftness Oxman brought his hands together an inch from his forehead almost in the manner of prayer. There was a sound like a steak hitting a slab of rock at great speed and the blade was stopped dead in its arc of death. Puzzled, the bandit chief tried to pull it back. He may as well have tried to pull a mountain, the sword stayed resolutely still.

The other bandits were standing stock still out of shock. This was clearly not going according to their mental script. The bandit chief looked up into those emerald green eyes separated by the thickness of the blade.

'I will give you this one chance, all of you.' Oxman began, his voice clear and loud enough to be heard all the way to Bowerstone. 'Run now, drop your blades and run as fast as you can and I will not come for you this day. If you stay here, weapons in hand, I will feed your corpses to the crows.'

The bandit chief looked up into Oxmans face, spat in his eye and tried to kick him in the groin. Unfortunately for him Oxman had been expecting such a thing and had already taken a step back. The upswing of his leg caused the outlaw leader to over unbalance. Oxmans hand came flying towards his chin, palm first. The blow connected the heel of his hand with the criminals chin with such force that the jaw broke at the socket and two angular pieces of bone were driven back into his throat severing the cerotic arteries.

Ducking to the left he brought his left foot round in a low arc that kicked the feet from under one of his attackers. The moment he hit the ground a large foot descended and utterly crushed his windpipe.

Another sword blade failed to make contact and was rewarded with a right uppercut of such swiftness that it shattered vertebrae.

It was such a short time before the screams were over and the forest had a backers dozen more corpses to hide in its leaf litter.

The rest of the journey to orchard farm was blessedly free of incident. But a piece of his soul wished to do it again, only bloodier. But as always Oxman dragged that blood red and black veined piece of himself back into the cage of his iron will, lest others find out and brand him 'Abomination'.

Orchard farm was a beautiful place. The land for quite some distance around was just covered in apple trees of innumerable breeds, as the name of the farm suggested. The very, very best cider in all of Albion came from this one farm, or so it was said. At this time of year the trees were in blossom and their subtle scent filled the air as their pale pink and white and palest of yellow petals filled the world. In the times to come Oxman would remember this day and it would give him strength when despair should have prevailed.

Mr Isiah Jennings and his wife Mrs Jenna Jennings whose family had owned the farm since the fall of the Old Kingdom, it was rumoured, were standing outside their picturesque house with expressions of worry and woe upon their faces. The farmhands had been advised to leave for the day, an act of kindness that was not an uncommon trait for Farmer...

Their expression of unease deepened as they saw Oxman walking up the farm path, smattered in blood and bruised of knuckle.

He eased their immediate worry by holding up the card he had taken from the Map Room of the Guild. Farmer ... recognised his own handwriting sagged with relief. He had sent that very card to the Guild just after dinnertime the day before, after having received numerous threats on his life for the ancient stones that had been unearthed by the roots of a falling apple tree.

'Thank Avo you are here, Hero. We were starting to believe that no one from the Guild would help us.'

'What is the problem?' asked the Hero in his rumbling voice.

'It's these stones, you see? Dug them up a few weeks ago and we have had nothing but trouble. If its not thieves in the night its lawyers by day and lawyers are worse because you get in more trouble for shooting at them.' He gestured to the large barn just off from the house. 'Had to put them in the barn, the misses won't have them in the house, all the trouble they've caused. We lost three farmhands just the other day when we tried to stop a raid.

The delivery people should be here sometime this afternoon so by my reckoning that means that they will attack some time soon. I've hired extra guards' at the sound of his words two big, heavily armed, burly men gave a wave of recognition. 'To be perfectly honest I'm not that bothered about how much they are worth anymore, I'll just be glad to see the back of them.'

It was not until dusk that the bandits attacked the farm. They all met poor ends as their bodies met blade and fist and were peppered with arrows, the arrows coming from the two guards. Oxman was only slightly worse with the bow than he was with magic.

As the last brute slid from Oxmans sword and he was turning back to the farmhouse with the warm satisfied feeling of a job well done a familiar voice came from behind him.

'Hello, Farmboy. This place should be like a home to you.' Whisper sneered.

'Leave this place Whisper. There is nothing here for you.'

'Well that's the thing, isn't it Farmboy, Lady Grey believes otherwise.'

'Then we are at odds.'

'Indeed we are, Farmboy. Call back your guards and lets duel like heroes.'

Oxman signalled the two guards to give them some space. Within an instant he was picking himself up off the floor, a ringing in his ears, lights flashing in front of his eyes and blood dribbling from a cut on his forehead. Just as he was getting back to his feet another blow came and caught him a cruel blow to the stomach. With an effort he stood up. The next blow was coming upwards in an attempt to catch him under the chin.

It did not connect. The quarterstaff slapped into his hand with a resounding thud. Wasting no time Oxman grabbed the wooden pole with his other hand, pushed it backwards so that it got caught in the strap from her backpack and her left armpit and heaved upwards. The result of this was to send whisper sailing overhead for quite some distance into the waiting embrace of the duck pond.

With no apparent effort he snapped Whispers weapon in half with a twist of his wrists and threw it into the duck pond after her.

'You are beaten. I am sorry.'

'You were just lucky.' She spat as she slapped his helping hand away and dragged herself out of the pond. 'You won't be lucky forever.' And with that she squelched away form Orchard Farm.

Mr and Mrs Jennings, who until that time had been hiding in the house out of everyone's way, came to the door.

'Well dome Hero! Here is your payment.' A small bag of mixed coinage as handed over. 'This world needs more people like you.'

It was near midnight by the time Oxman got to lookout point. The poisons of fatigue and the backlash of adrenalin were ganging up on his synapses, who always seemed to be on in the minority in the best of times, and he just knew that there was no way he would make it to his camp in the guild woods tonight.

Somehow, and he could never remember how, he ended up in front of the tavern in Bowerstone. It was open and doing a brisk trade in another night of revelry and was just getting to the stage when people are either trying to forget who they are or remember where they live.

All conversation stopped as Oxman eclipsed the door. People who are just a hair over seven foot tall, heavily muscled and covered in dried blood tend to have this effect on people.

He trudged over to the counter on auto pilot dropped a number of large denomination coins on the table and plodded up the creaking stairs to the one remaining empty bed. A few seconds' later conversations in the public room resumed their interrupted course and the night marched inexorably towards the dawn.

The sun rose in the east again, as per tradition. And the sparrows began their morning praise to the light. Several hours afterwards Oxman fell out of his the bed and landed with a very loud thud upon the floorboards, thus began another day.

He descended the stairs and walked over to the bar. He stood there for a few minuets as he tried to read the menu.

'It says "Liver and Onions", sir.' Offered the landlord helpfully.

'Thank you. I will have a plate of Liver and Onions please.' A number of smaller denomination coins were placed on the bar.

Oxman selected a seat by the window, sat down to the sound of creaking wood as the chair protested to his weight, and placed his head on the table in the hope that the pounding would stop.

There was a jingle as the door was opened and another customer entered the pub.

'Is this seat taken?' it was a familiar voice and it took Oxman only a few seconds to recognise it as Briar Rose.

'Seats free.' Answered Oxman, still not taking his head off the table.


End file.
